The Big Hunt (6 page)

For almost fifteen minutes the fight raged and it would long be discussed around Otley Creek, compared favorably with other battles of a similar nature. From the damage done around the barroom, it seemed that Corben's plan was working; even though the desire to see Kerry beaten to a pulp fell far short of expectation, due to the intervention of Lord Henry Farnes-Grable and Dobe Killem. If it came to a point, Kerry took more than his fair share in preventing the proposed beating once
given a chance to handle a single adversary at a time.

A table flew through one of the front windows, followed by a gandy dancer, who walked into Dobe Killem's hard right hand. Sent staggering by a kick to the rump from Calamity, a saloon girl walked into a haymaker thrown by Beryl and went out after the man. Then Beryl and Calamity returned to the business of handling the two girls who started the fuss.

At the door the big Texas cattleman caught a chair which hurled in his direction and crashed it into the chest of the thrower, Wingett, as the skinner rushed after it. Wingett reeled under the impact and a disinterested gandy dancer pushed him headlong across the room to where Kerry was engaged in altering the unlovely contours of Potter's face. Seeing another enemy approaching, Kerry pivoted into a kick which caught Wingett under the jaw, lifted him erect, spun him around and draped him unconscious across a couple of exhausted, weakly tussling girls.

Somebody crashed into the big Texan's back, bringing a frown to his face. Seeing a marshal's badge on the jacket of the man who cannoned into him while hurrying into the room, the Texan held down his annoyance. At such a moment a lawman going about his business had more on his mind
than the social courtesies and could be excused for not apologizing when he bumped into a bystander.

Skidding to a halt, Berkmyer stared around him. While he expected some damage, he never foresaw a wholesale battle requiring his handling. Not that it would take much handling at that stage of the proceedings. Several men and girls lay sprawled out and most of the others looked ready to tucker off at any second. The sight of Dobe Killem sinking a punch into Sharpie's belly and dropping the deputy to his knees did not worry Berkmyer, for he and his assistant merely tolerated each other at the best of times. What dug into the marshal was seeing Kerry Barran still on his feet and, although marked up some, not battered into a wreck.

Exhausted, aching and sore, Kerry smashed a right across Potter's jaw and knocked the man flying, then the hunter slipped and went to his hands and knees. Gasping for breath, Kerry stayed down and shook his head to clear it. He heard a snarl of rage and looked up to see Berkmyer looming above him. Out lashed the marshal's foot, driving viciously at Kerry. Desperately the big hunter tried to avoid the kick. He only partially succeeded. Throwing his body aside, he moved too slowly in his exhausted state and, although saving his head, took the boot under the shoulder. Pain knifed
through him and he went rolling helplessly on the floor.

Seeing the unprovoked attack, Lord Henry did not hesitate. He had just dropped Schmidt with an uppercut that threatened to stretch the German's bull neck and sprang forward. Profiting from his experience with Sharpie, Lord Henry did not allow the marshal's badge to influence him. Out shot his right in a punch which caught Berkmyer full in the center of the face, throwing him backward. Berkmyer landed rump first on the floor in the doorway. Snarling with rage, he reached for his gun.

“Leave it,” ordered a drawling Texas voice, its authoritative hardness checked by the click of a cocking Colt.

Turning his head Berkmyer glared through eyes blurred with tears of pain at the speaker. First he saw high-heeled, fancy-stitched boots with good spurs on the heels; then levis pants, hanging outside the boots and with the cuffs turned back. The pants legs stretched a long way before a good quality gun-belt crossed them, an ivory-handled Army Colt in the left holster, its mate lined on the marshal with practiced ease. Above the levis a narrow waist widened to a great spread of shoulders clothed in made-to-measure costly shirt and real silk bandana. Golden blond hair framed an almost classically handsome face, while an expensive
white Stetson hung back on its storm-strap. While the interfering Texan looked something of a dandy, that did not fool Berkmyer, who knew the man's name and reputation.

So did at least one other person in the room.

Shirt torn, nose bloody, bruised and sweat-soaked, hair even more wildly tangled than usual, Calamity expended some of her last energy in a wobbly right to the black-haired girl's chin and toppled her to the floor. Then, while turning to look for a fresh antagonist, she saw the Texan.

“M-Mark!” she croaked, the best she could manage in her present condition.

The action proved her undoing. An equally exhausted, tattered Win swung a wild punch at and missed Beryl but caught Calamity at the side of the jaw. Down went Calamity, landing on top of Potter, and a moment later Win crashed on top of her, knocked there by the last blow Beryl could manage. After delivering what proved to be the last punch of the fight, Beryl suddenly realized where she was, what she had been doing, and guessed how she must look, her coat gone, blouse and skirt torn and stockings in tatters. However, she had not the strength to flee from the room and sank to her knees, sobbing in exhaustion.

S
LOWLY
L
ORD
H
ENRY LOWERED HIS FISTS AND
stood gasping for breath, yet alert for more trouble. His eyes roamed around the room, seeing Killem and Kerry alone remained on their feet, then his attention went to where his sister knelt by the unconscious shapes of Calamity and Big Win.

“See to Lady Beryl, Wheatley,” he said as the valet came forward. “I'll take my coat.”

The hotel manager appeared, a mild little man who showed distress at the damage to his barroom, but even more so at the sight of his most distinguished guest standing with vest torn open, shirt ripped and face marked up some as a result of the
fight. Spluttering his apologies, the manager came toward Lord Henry, saw Beryl and began to gobble incoherently.

“Send for a doctor, my good chap,” Lord Henry interrupted. “And have one of your maids attend to my sister.”

“Yes, sir, I mean your Lordship,” the manager answered. “I'll have every one of those sluts jailed and run out of town for attacking——”

“I'd wait until you hear what Lady Beryl wants first,” smiled Lord Henry, and looked to where Killem knelt at Calamity's side. “Is Calam all right?”

“I've seen her look better,” grinned the freighter, his examination showing that no permanent damage was likely to result from the brawl. Hooking an arm under the girl, he raised her to her feet and carried her to one of the few tables left standing. “Hey, bartender, fetch me a bottle of pain killer here!”

“Sure thing, Dobe,” called the man.

Before settling about the business of clearing up the fight damage, Lord Henry glared across the room in the town marshal's direction. Still seated on the floor and covered by the blond giant's Colt, Berkmyer tried to assert his authority.

“I'll jail the lot of you!” he blustered.

“You wouldn't want to bet on that?” asked the Texan, secure behind his lined revolver.

“I'll do it if I have to deputize every man in town!” Berkmyer insisted.

“Put up your gun, sir,” said Lord Henry briskly, coming forward. “There will be no further need for it.”

“You could be right at that,” drawled the Texan and slid the Colt away.

Shoving himself to his feet and making sure he kept his hands well clear of his holstered gun, Berkmyer tried, without success, to meet the Englishman's cold gaze. Reaching inside his jacket, Lord Henry extracted a large, official-looking envelope and removed a stiff sheet of paper from it.

“I suppose you can read, my man,” he said coldly, ripping open the paper and holding it toward Berkmyer.

“Sure I can read!” snorted the marshal, accepting the paper and glancing down at it. “So what's th——”

The indignation died off as he stared down at the printed heading of the paper and began to read its message. After reading only three lines, his eyes bulged out, sweat trickled down his face and he realized that he might as well forget any plans for vengeance through the law.

“I—I——” he began, then sought for a scapegoat. “If that damned hunter caused you any——”

“He did not!” barked Lord Henry. “Mr. Barran
was set about by a bunch of ruffians, after trying to avoid trouble. If anybody is to blame, they are, although I think they've been punished enough.”

“Sure,” grunted Berkmyer.

“And I may say I'm not satisfied with your ideas of doing your duty,” the Englishman continued. “Instead of trying to level unsupported accusations, you would be better employed in organizing aid for the fighters and learning how much damage has been done with a view to obtaining payment for it.

“I'll do that,” Berkmyer promised and slouched away.

Family ties and financial support were all very well; but that tall dude carried a letter requesting that all Army officers, Federal and town marshals, county sheriffs and other local authorities give him every assistance and full cooperation. Being signed by the President of the United States himself, the letter carried weight. Berkmyer did not intend bucking a man with influence going that high in the land.

Swinging away from the cold, demanding eyes, Berkmyer started to call in help to deal with the victims of the fight. Lord Henry watched the proceedings for a moment, then turned to the blond giant.

“Thank you for your timely help, sir. Of course, I doubt if the marshal meant to use his gun.”

“I'd hate like hell to count on that,” replied the Texan. “Best go and see how Calam's doing.”

Half an hour later the Texan sat with Lord Henry, Killem and Kerry Barran in the hotel's dining room. All the men had received such medication as their injuries required and the doctor still patched up other participants in the brawl. Beryl and Calamity had been taken to the blonde's room to be patched up and even as the Texan spoke he saw Calamity enter.

Limping to the table, Calamity grinned all around and waved the men into their chairs again. On taking her seat she winced and hitched her rump up from the chair.

“Whooee!” she said. “I'd sure like to know who bit me there.” She looked across the table. “How's it feel, Hank?”

“Huh?” grunted Lord Henry. “Oh, passing fair, Calam. And you?”

“Great. Apart from being all bruises except where I'm lumps. Say, that sister of yours is some gal. She's up there now telling the manager that he'd best not fire any of the gals, and she expects them to be kept off work at full pay until they're well again.”

“Trust Beryl to do the right thing,” smiled Lord Henry. “By the way, do you know Mark Counter?”

“I sure do,” Calamity answered, eyeing the
blond giant with warmth. “Just my lousy luck. All stove-up and feeble, and Mark Counter in town.”

“It'll be more peaceable for me, Calam,” Mark told her.

Calamity had met Mark on two previous occasions and enjoyed each meeting to the full.
^*
Nor did her enjoyment stem from just that fact that Mark rode as a member of Ole Devil Harding's legendary floating outfit and was right bower to the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, as well as being very rich in his own right and a top-grade fighting man to boot.
^†

“Will you do a poor gal a favor, Mark?” the girl asked.

“Anything,” he replied.

“Well, Dobe's busy right now and you know a gal daren't walk the streets after dark without a big strong man to protect her.”

“So?”

“So walk me down to my wagon. I want to get my medicine bag out. That city doctor doesn't know sic 'em about curing aches got in a brawl.”

“If you'll excuse me, gents,” grinned Mark, shoving back his chair.

“Won't you stay and eat first, Calamity?” asked Lord Henry.

“Reckon I might manage a bit,” she agreed. “A gal needs to keep up her strength for—walking to her wagon.”

“I always find a good fight gives me an appetite,” Lord Henry admitted.

“You should be good and hungry right now,” grinned Killem. “Say, Mark, why didn't you cut in?”

“I didn't want to spoil your fun,” Mark answered. “And I've got to be in one piece when I go down trail in the morning. Fact being Dusty told me I'd best come back that way.”

“It pays to keep Cap'n Fog happy,” chuckled Killem, and the talk drifted to stories which circulated about the exploits of the Rio Hondo gun wizard.

Food came, to be eaten with gusto; although more than one face showed signs of strain when sinking teeth into something a mite harder than a sore jaw cared to accommodate. Conversation flashed around the table and Kerry Barran found himself joining in more and more. Never since his boyhood days on the farm in Missouri had he found such enjoyable company and he made the most of it. Knowing something of the hunter's silent nature, Killem threw interested glances at Kerry and marvelled at the change.

At last the meal ended and cigar-smoke clouded
the air. Calamity finished her coffee and stubbed out the end of the cigar which she took along with the men. Giving a grunt, she stretched her arms and winced a little at the pain it caused.

“When you bunch're tired of whittle-wanging,” she said, “there's a sick and sore lil gal here just dying on her feet for want of loving care.”

“Come on then, Calam,” Mark replied. “I'll walk you along to Ma Gerhity's place after you've collected your gear from the wagon.”

On leaving the dining-room, Calamity first went upstairs and into the English couple's suite. She found the doctor fussing around Beryl, but the blonde appeared to be recovered without any serious damage or effects. So Calamity took her gun-belt and whip, wished Beryl good night, and rejoined Mark in the hall. There she also saw Big Win and watched the other suspiciously. However, it proved that Win felt no hostility and even grinned amiably.

“Say, that blonde gal's really something, Calam,” Win said. “Do you know what she's done?”

“Nope.”

“Squared things with the boss for us—and offered to pay for anything we had lost or damaged in the fight.”

“She's a real lady and all right in my book,” Calam commented.

“And mine,” agreed Win. “I've told the others that anybody who tries to put the bite for more than she lost'll answer to me.”

“Thanks, Win,” Calamity said.

“She's playing square with us. Tell Dobe I'm sorry for hitting him.”

“You tell him when he comes out of the dining-room. Maybe he'll feel like throwing a party.”

Win groaned. “Right now a party's the last thing I want.”

“I know just how you feel,” grinned Calamity. “See you around, Win.”

“Same old Calamity,” Mark said, taking the girl's arm and walking from the hotel with her. “Neck deep in fuss like always.”

“I tell you, Mark,” she replied. “This's
one I
didn't start.”

“And didn't walk two short inches to avoid, either. You'd make a hell of a wife for a man, Calam.

“If that's asking me——”

“It's not,” Mark hurriedly assured her.

“You had me worried there for a minute,” grinned the girl.

“You'd make a hell of a husband for a gal, too—and I should know.”

The two wagons had been left at the rear of the livery barn, between the big main building and a half-circle of corrals. Pausing only to look in on
hers and Killem's wagon teams, housed in one corral, Calamity walked toward the wagon, still on Mark's arm.

“Fair bunch of horses in the big corral,” Mark commented. “They're some for Henry's buying, aren't they?”

“Sure. Wainer's holding them for a mustanger who caught them. Henry'll be coming down to take what he wants in the morning.”

On reaching the rear of Calamity's wagon, Mark gripped her under the arms and swung her up to its bed with no more effort than shown by a nurse lifting a baby. However, before entering the wagon's covered-over section, Calamity paused and looked down at him.

“What now?” asked Mark.

“I'm scared of mice.”

“So?”

“So happen I see one inside, I might scream.”

“And then what?” grinned Mark.

“Just think what folks'd say happen they heard me screeching—cause I was scared of a mouse—and found you stood outside the wagon. Why it could plumb ruin you socially.”

“A man has to watch his social standing,” admitted Mark, and swung up alongside the girl.

Expecting to spend the night at Ma Gerhity's place, Calamity had not troubled to open out her
bedroll, or take it along. Striking a match, she crossed the bare floor of the wagon and lit the lamp which hung from the roof. From there she went to the front of the wagon, knelt down and unfastened the buckles of the bedroll. A shove opened it, tarp blankets and suggans flopping out to form a ready-made bed with her war-bag in the center.

“I'm too tuckered out to walk right down to Ma's place,” she said.

“So what do you aim to do?” asked Mark.

“I'd stay on here, but it's too scary for a poor, defenseless lil gal all alone.”

“Reckon it would be,” Mark agreed.

“A Texas gentleman ought to know the right thing to do,” Calamity commented.

“A Texas
gentleman'd
go fetch a chaperone to watch over you.”

“He would?”

“Surely would. Only I'm no gentleman.”

“I just wouldn't have it any other way,” sighed Calamity. “I'll get some of that soothing oil I got from that old Pawnee medicine woman. It sure works for stiffness and aches—if I can find some way of putting it on.”

“There's always a way—happen you look,” Mark told her.

The inside of the wagon lay dark, warm, and the
not unpleasant scent of the Pawnee medicine woman's soothing oil permeated the air. Snuggled up against Mark's side, Calamity awoke and felt him stirring slightly.

“Somebody just went by,” she whispered.

“I heard them,” Mark replied and rolled free from the blankets.

Range habits caused Mark to retain his trousers, even though removing his shirt when he went to bed. He reached out, drew on the shirt and then slid the right-hand Colt from its holster. Moving with just as much speed, and in equal silence, Calamity slipped into her shirt, but laid her defensive emphasis on the long bull whip rather than her revolver. Side by side, they moved to the rear of the wagon and Mark drew up the cover to let them look out.

“Down by the big corral gate!” Calamity breathed.

A quarter moon gave them just enough light to make out the dark shape which made its stealthy way along the side of the big main corral. Swiftly Mark swung himself over the tail gate of the wagon, dropping soundlessly to the ground. Wise in such matters, he tossed the Colt from his right hand to the left on landing. He figured he might need the gun, but wished to avoid becoming an open target.